


If You Need Me

by PandaNova



Category: Elementary
Genre: Caretaking, Comfort, F/M, Fluff, Romance, sick
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-10
Updated: 2013-06-18
Packaged: 2017-12-14 14:07:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/837736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PandaNova/pseuds/PandaNova
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Joan has come down with the flu, and it's up to Holmes to take care of her for a change. This time, it's not ordinary case of the sniffles, and the two come to realizations about relying on one another.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Are you Alright?

**Author's Note:**

> Credit behind the idea of this fic goes to forensiphile on tumblr who asked me to write a JoanLock sick fic! Originally this was going to be a one-shot but it's turning into a monster, so this will be multichapter.  
> Reviews are always welcome, enjoy!

The case was over. It was supposed to be a great feeling, but as they walked back to the Brownstone Joan was feeling more exhausted than she had in sometime. Sherlock was chipper, practically bouncing as they walked from the subway, and she was lagging behind. He was almost eight paces ahead of her when he finally noticed, stopping and turning to look at her with a contemplative expression. Great, that’s just what she needed. Instead of getting to go home and rest he was going to spend his whole time trying to decipher her. She forced herself to walk faster, even as her legs gave her pain in return.

“It occurs Watson, that you do not seem to be in high spirits.” His eyes were fully on her now.

She had stepped past him, but he stayed still, following her with his eyes. It was nearing first light, it was past midnight before they got that damn confession, and he was just going to stand there. Stand there in the November cold, and make her stop and wait for him to finish his deductions!

“I’m just tired.” She said it automatically, though she knew it would be no use. 

“Are you sure you’re alright, Watson?” His tone surprised her, and she turned to face him. No accusation of staying up watching the Mets game, no gibe about her menstrual cycle, no smirking face and arrogant air. Instead, he stood there, eyes raw and face showing poignant concern.

She gave him her best smile, before responding “I promise, I’m just tired.” He didn’t seem convinced. His hands were tense, curling into fists then releasing to repeat the action a second later. Finally he gave a nod, and they continued to the Brownstone.

Once inside she couldn’t get upstairs fast enough, she quickly shot a goodnight to Sherlock before taking to the stairs. Her legs were aching now, and she pulled her heels off before she even made it to her room. Her fingers caught the light switch on her way in, and she had never been so happy to see her bed before. She almost forgot to close her door she was so concentrated on that lovely mattress, yet when she turned to close it she stopped. Sherlock was standing in the doorway, the same concentrated frown on his face.

“Sherlock?” He was staring at her with an intensity she was unused to, his eyes flicking from her feet to her head rapidly. He didn’t answer right away, the nervous energy too much as he kept an almost avian like degree of concentration on her. It wasn’t until she was almost directly in front of him that he finally came out of his deducing stare.

“Watson, I -” He paused there, a strange hesitance in his tone, and the nervous energy coursing through him once again. “Are you quite sure you are alright?” 

His expression is the same one he wore on the sidewalk, raw and concerned. She knows she shouldn’t be cross with him, but that minor twinge of irritation hits before she can hide it and he picks up on it. He always picks up on it. “I’m sorry, I am keeping you awake. Forgive the intrusion.”

The sudden air of formality is stranger than his stares and concern, “Sherlock?” Her voice stops him, sure as if she had barred his path. He turns, his eyes suddenly unsure and avoiding her. She smiles, attempting to calm his fears. “Mind putting my coat up?” 

He smiles, and helps her out of the large thigh length wool coat that was a prerequisite for New York autumn. He nods to her, but still his frown has not faded. He leaves and she closes the door, she knows if there is something further he wants to say he’ll simply let himself in here and tell her.

The next morning she regrets everything. Agreeing to take on the case, agreeing to be Sherlock’s companion, going to med school, being born. Her headache is astronomical, her sinuses are screaming, her throat is burning, and everything hurts. She rolls to one side, realizing she is stiff from laying in one spot almost the entire night, only to realize the sun is glaring through the window. Her headache blooms into white and black spots behind eyelids before she quickly turns back the other way. She groans incoherently as she tries to block out the light.

“Watson!” She knows he is shouting from downstairs, but it feels as if he was right next to her. Her head throbs as she pulls an arm over her eyes, trying to blot out the sound. Then she hears the thunder that is his feet on the stairs and opts instead to blot out both sound and light with a pillow. 

“Watson,” her door thrusts open, and she can feel his steps into the room. He heads straight for the closet, but she can’t bring herself to turn to him, her headache is too strong. “I just got a call from Captain Gregson, and there is a new case he wishes our assistance with. I know you usually prefer a day between cases, but - Watson?” 

She groans again and tries to hide further beneath her blankets. She feels the bed groan and she groans in response, he is sitting on the edge of her bed now. She doesn’t know when she curled up into a tiny ball, or when she thrust her head beneath her blankets, but she’s thankful for the quiet and lack of light. “What is the matter, Watson?”

That damned concerned tone again, she rolls onto her back so he can at least see her. She knows her nose is probably red, and her skin pale. She is sure she looks better than she feels. “ I think I caught something.” She replies lamely. 

“That much is obvious.” His lips are pursed, eyes concentrated on her face once more. “I shall let the Captain know the NYPD shall have to solve this crime solo.” He stands up with a force that makes the bed shake, and she sits up to try and watch his movement.

“No, it’s ok. You go without me.” Her voice is scratchier than she remembers, and the pain in her throat is more noticeable. “I’ll just rest up for the day. No reason for you to be stuck home too.”

He goes tense for a moment, his hands flicking with nervous energy. Then all is still once more, “I really must insist I remain here.” 

The act of sitting up is too much, she lies back down. “You’ll be bored.” 

A death sentence for Holmes, and she expects him to take the bait. She is surprised when instead he stays where he is, and she can feel that intense gaze on her again. “I shall call Gregson. Then we’ll see if we can get something for that headache.” He strides from the room, leaving no room for argument. Joan can’t wrap her head around what just happened, the work always comes first. She finds herself too tired to argue, and let’s her eyes close.

She awakes some time later and finds the room dark, she rolls over and sees that several pieces of cloth have been hung up over the several windows in her room. The sunlight still comes through but it’s only enough to make out shapes. She rolls slightly, groaning with the effort.

“You’re awake, good.” Sherlock is sitting in the chair, though it’s been moved closer to where the bed. “I was worried I’d have to wake you.” He leans forward, his hand reaching outward, palm up, toward her. “For your headache, it should also help with your sinuses.” 

She reaches out and their fingers brush as she searches his palm for the pill, it’s small and she can’t tell what it is. He tenses with the touch, but calms once more when her fingers capture the capsule. She worries for a moment that it’s a opiate, but assures herself Sherlock knows better. “I have fresh tea downstairs. I’ll bring some up. There is water on the bedside table.”

When he leaves this time it’s much quieter, she can barely hear him on the steps. The pill is quickly taken, and she realizes it’s an over-the-counter cold medication. She feels relief, even if she shouldn’t have questioned it. 

He is back in moments, tea in hand. He offers it too her, but hovers even when she takes it. Her brow furrows, but a few sips of it are quick relief. Her throat eases, and she visibly relaxes. “Thanks, Sherlock.”

“I am afraid I wasn’t able to procure your favorite herbal remedy, but I’m having some brought over. For now this will have to do.” His body is full of nervous energy as he moves back to the seat, and drags it closer to the bed. She can feel his foot tapping. It must be driving him crazy sitting like this while a case goes on without him.

She sets the tea aside, and sits up. He is up in an instant, moving pillows, attempting to make her comfortable. “Sherlock.” He stops, his hands frozen, before he quickly sits back down. “You know, you could just call Ms. Hudson. I’m sure the case needs you.”

“Oh, no. I already helped some while you rested, Gregson can take it from here.” He is bouncing again, fidgeting. Even in the low light she can see him moving, his head looking away from her. He can’t manage to still himself, and she wonders if it’s because of the case or because of her. 

“Really, Sherlock - you don’t have to -”

“No.” He cuts her off, and she finds herself gaping. “It is better if I’m here.”

He stands and looks to her, but in the low light she has a hard time making out the expression on his face. “Your herbal tea will be here any moment, and some soup as well. Until then, rest.” His voice is more commanding than she expected it to be, and then he strides from the room once more. His stern tone still leaving her in shock, just what had gotten into him? She falls back asleep before she can think too heavily on it, sleep is a sweet oblivion and she is not going to argue with it. 

She wakes again, and there are voices downstairs. She can only hope he took her advice and called Ms. Hudson. He looked like he was ready to jump out of his own skin, probably with boredom. Her headache is beginning to return, and she finds herself reaching blindly around the side table. The sound must have been enough because the voices downstairs quiet.

Soon footsteps are taking the stairs, but again with much more care. Even the door is opened quietly, but even in the gloom she can tell it’s Sherlock. “I hope we didn’t wake you.” His voice is gentle, compassionate, and far more apologetic than necessary. “I have your herbal remedy.”

Now she knows something is up, he is hovering again. Her eyes narrow, and sets the hot tea to the side. Even in the dim light he must feel her gaze because he goes suddenly still. 

“Sherlock.” Her tone speaks volumes, “What are you doing?”

“Bringing you the tea that you are convinced will ease your symptoms.” He says with an ease he doesn’t feel.

“Convinced? I seem to remember it working just fine for you.” The words make her throat burn, and she leans over to grab the tea. He is there again, offering the tea to her, her brow pinches in irritation.

“Consider this a second opinion.” He eases the tea to her, and she grabs the material of his sweater to force him still. He tenses up, tight as a wire.

“You are a bad liar.” He almost drops the tea with the sudden movement, but she releases and takes it from him before his shock can cause a mess.

“Whatever do you mean, Watson?” He straightens his sweater, not because it needs it but to ease the energy inside.

“You didn’t work on the case,” She sips the tea before setting it aside once more. He doesn‘t rush to help, he stays perfectly still. “ And you’re not here to see if my herbal remedy actually works.”

“ What am I here for, Watson?” His voice is wavering, she can’t decipher what is under it. He seems to be shaking.

“I don’t know.” she confesses.

“Then I shall consider myself fortunate that your deductive skills still need honing.” His lips crease to a tense line, and his entire body seems to tense on just as fine a line. He leaves on that note, softly closing her door behind him. For the next twenty minutes the voices downstairs continue. She couldn’t hear enough to figure out who it was, but she was fairly sure it was female. By the time her tea is finished the voices have stopped all together. 

A few hours later he bring her another pill, but doesn’t linger. It’s around an hour after that she hears the soft tones of a violin, and his playing finally let’s her sleep.

She is awoken by a light in her face, and groans at it. She tries to roll, but finds she is being held still. Blurry vision can see a face, but can’t truly make out the features. He is speaking, but she feels like she is underwater. Everything is muffled. The light is being shined in one eye, then the other, before disappearing.

It is a hand on her face that makes her realize what is happening, touching against cheek and then forehead. Large hands, she had never realized how thin his fingers were. She has a fever, those hands are like ice touching against her face. “Sherlock?” 

He freezes, hand against her right cheek. He’s sitting beside her on the bed once more, his face a few inches from her own. He is leaning over her, a small flashlight in his hand. It’s hers, from her days in the ER, normally kept on her dresser now. His expression is grave, lips pulled downward in an obvious frown. He removes his hand slowly, sitting up to give her space.

“Forgive the impropriety, it would appear we do not have a thermometer.” His voice shows how on edge he is, his form tense. He keeps still, but the energy is boiling over beneath it. He stands, stiffly, and moves over to the nearby dresser. “I must bring your fever down.” 

She can hear pills in their containers as he moves several and returns with a small assortment. Her head can’t follow him, her body too weak from the fever. She reaches blindly when she hears him return, and he cups her hand with one hand, and lifts her shoulders with the other. Some part of her mind realizes this is the closest she and Sherlock has ever been, and the most they have ever been in physical contact. Another part of her is aware she is still in her pajamas, and that this is the most skin she has ever shown around Sherlock. The whole of her is too sick to be embarrassed. 

He grabs the water with a now free hand, and she places his assortment of pills into her mouth. He lifts her head gently, cradling it as he brings the water to her lips. It takes a few swallows to get them down, but finally the process is over. He gently eases her back, and she had never realized before he could be so gentle. He was usually a flurry of motions, harsh and fast. This care is unexpected. He adjusts a pillow and then sits back fully. Still his eyes remain on her, and once again she cannot figure out that expression. It’s not one she’s ever seen before.

“Please rest, Watson. It will hasten your recovery.” His voice is warm, and it carries a caring she’s not sure she ever heard before. He sits up from the bed, and it feels colder for the lack of his presence, but perhaps that is just the fever. His fingers reach and slowly pull her comforter up over her shoulders. She is shivering, she hadn’t even realized it.

Sherlock steps slowly away, but does not leave. Instead he circles around the bed to the chair, and sits down. There is a lamp near it, and in front of the light he is almost entirely a silhouette. She rolls toward him, and her mind begs her to say something. The fever prevents it, her normally sharp mind dulled through fever. The drowsiness of the pills is on setting, and she can feel it adding lethargy to her limbs. “Sherlock,” she reaches a hand out from beneath the covers, and in an instant his large hands enfold her own.

“Do not worry.” His voice is a whisper, so quiet she can barely hear it, “I shall be here if you need anything.” The comfort of those words, and the warmth of his hand, lulls her once more into a dreamless sleep.


	2. Teacups and Soup Bowls

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to all my wonderful reviewers, and everyone who left kudos or bookmarked this work! Please send critiques if you see anything (grammar, characterization, whatever) that needs tweaking! And, of course, big thanks to forensiphile; without her prompt this wouldn't be possible. There will be, at least, one more chapter to this piece so please enjoy!

He wakes her a few times in the night, checking her fever and giving another dosage of pills. Each time she only wakes long enough to do as asked before falling back under. Whatever this assortment was it was doing wonders for keeping her unconscious. 

There is no miraculous recovery, but when she wakes fully she feels remarkably less like death than the day before. A long stretch reminds her that her limbs are still heavy, and the intake of breath tells her that her throat is still viciously sore, but the headache is eased and her sinuses mostly clear. She checks herself for fever and notes that it had mostly broken in the night. Her temperature is still elevated, but nothing to be concerned about. 

She finds, to her surprise, Sherlock still there. He’s in the chair, and asleep. Joan can’t help the smirk that takes to her face as she sits up to get a better look at him. His legs are stretched out below the bed, fingers enfolded across his chest, head lolling to one side. One could believe he was simply in a contemplative mood if it wasn’t for the way his entire face was relaxed. Oh, and the bit of drool at the corner of his mouth. Very Sherlock.

Joan considers waking him, but decides against it. When he is asleep is one of the few quiet moments in the Brownstone. She finds her water on the bedside table, but no pills. Seems Sherlock did not put out her next dosage. Best take care of that herself.

After a day of bed rest moving is wonderful. Her joints ache, movement causes her headache to reappear, but the cold floor against her feet is delicious. Despite her attempts to be quiet she only makes it two steps before the creaking floor of the brownstone causes Sherlock to wake.

She tries to stop herself from turning to watch, but his startling awake is too amusing. He is bleary eyed and confused. His arm swings and he hits it against the arm of the chair. He hisses in pain as a chain of curses leaves him. Joan loses it then, quiet laughter making her shoulders to shake.

“Watson.” His eyes narrow, and the tone is no longer the one of a man half asleep. He is up from the chair in a moment, and adjusts his clothing quickly as he takes the two steps to her. “You should not be up.”

His face, serious and chastising, only makes it worse. His hair doesn’t help either. She leans over from laughter, her throat screaming in pain, holding onto the dresser for support. Thankfully her hair blocks him from view, or she would have seen his face go from chastising to outright incensed. As it is she can see him tensing, his hands clenched in irritation, and it takes all her self-control to stop laughing. 

“Obviously you are still unwell, else wise you would be able to contain yourself.” His voice has just a hint of pouting in it, and that sobers her enough to lean back up. 

“Sorry, Sherlock.” She is grinning, and it ruins the effect of her apology.

“You most certainly are not.” His lips have gone down to a thin line, as his longer arms reach around her. He grabs two, of what must be half a dozen pill bottles and containers. The first is the same over-the-counter from before, along with at least three other similar brands, and the second is an anti-biotic. She helps herself to the antibiotic as he fights with the capsule packaging of her symptom-aid. 

“You’ll be interested to know that this particular brand has the most active ingredients that are proven to assist in your symptoms.” His voice is smug even as he fights with the blister pack. He sets the package down, the capsule now properly freed, before passing it along to her. This time there is no hesitation as he merely drops it into her outstretched hand. “And the antibiotic is top of the line as well.”

“This is about my tea isn’t it?” 

“Absolutely not. I am merely pointing out modern medicine’s efficiency.” He retorts.

“So it is about my tea.” Joan keeps her laughter in check this time and merely smirks as she returns to bed. His defensive posturing is dropped when she reaches it, and he quickly sets about making her comfortable. Hovering again, trying to adjust, but her look is enough to stop him. 

“I have more of your herbal remedy downstairs, and I must insist you eat something.” He is tense and, despite his control, he is rocking slightly on his heels as he speaks. His hands at his sides are fists, and Joan is pretty sure she’s never seen him this on edge before. “I shall bring some up.”

He pivots with ease, but she grabs his sweater again. He goes rigid at the touch, and she lets go. “Thanks Sherlock, but I’ll get it myself.” 

“But-” 

“Sherlock.” Her tone silences him, either that or the ‘I am so done’ look on her face. Usually he would see this look, storm out of the room, and leave her in peace. It appears today is not usually, since instead he crosses to her and places hands on her shoulder shoving her downward. She had barely gotten up and now she found herself forced to sit.

“You are not well Watson, and will remain in bed.” The shock of being pressed down wouldn’t have kept her there long, but he kept his hands firmly against her shoulders. She tensed beneath that pressure and he released her. His hands once more moved passively to his sides, and his gaze avoided her. “I shall go heat your tea now.” This time she didn’t stop him. His movements were stiff as he walked out, his hands now limp at his sides. 

Joan was left confused, trying to figure out what the hell had just transpired. Touch was something rare between them, done for purely necessary or utilitarian reasons. He never approached in a threatening manner, and always kept his body language as neutral as possible. Then what was all this? Shoving her down was the most hostile action he had ever made at her, even when he was mad he never even raised a hand to point at her.

She got up again and closed the door, she needed to clear her head and she needed to get out of these clothes. While last night she had been too sick to care, today she was very aware of it.

Part of her recalled gripping his hand during his fever, but that was simple enough to justify. She pulled out a fresh tank top and some leggings before digging for a shirt, laying them out on the bed. She was sick, and reaching for comfort when ill or distressed is a common behavior. Sure their relationship was nowhere near normal, but it didn’t mean she couldn’t reach for him in a moment of need. Then there were his actions from the day before, his refusal to work on the case for instance. Something about that just didn’t sit right with her. Her fingers pulled out a black and white striped shirt. This would have to do, she wouldn’t be able to shower today (too dangerous to the fever) and didn’t want to pull out one of her better outfits. 

What was going on with him? Sherlock was hard to understand most of the time, and the center of a cyclone on really bad days. Here he was acting. . .not like Sherlock. Sherlock never quit a case due to some one else’s needs, or his own. Sherlock never stayed up all night looking after some one else’s fever, and above all Sherlock never touched other people unless it was absolutely necessary. 

Joan sighed and started to change. Despite all her deductive skills that she had gained, being able to perfectly read a man she considered a friend was not one of them. There was something in how he was acting though, nervous perhaps? She called him on his lie yesterday, but he didn’t explain himself. What was he hiding? Maybe it was just her inner detective, because second guessing his actions seemed more Sherlockian than Watsonian, but something else was going on here. Some part of the picture she just wasn’t seeing.

She had finished changing into the leggings, and thrown off the shirt (disgusting and sweat covered as it was) when she heard the two sharp knocks on the door. He was already back, and she hadn’t figured out what his malfunction was. Maybe she never would.

“Sherlock! I’m not-” The door opened despite her shout, and she heard the click of porcelain against porcelain.

“Oh! I - Sorry Watson.” He didn’t leave, but she was used to this by now. At least he apologized, that’s more than she usually got. She guessed by the scuff of his shoes he turned, but she looked over to check. He was staring a hole into the area above the dresser, and she quickly pulled on the tank top. 

“It’s safe.” She threw the words over her shoulder, and saw his shoulders instantly relax. Odd, he was never shy about barging into her room before, regardless of how little she was wearing. She grabbed her chosen shirt and pulled it over, and she could hear him adjusting things on her bed.

“The soup should be of suitable temperature, do tell me if it is too cool.” His voice was wavering again, and his eyes looking anywhere that wasn’t her. He was standing perfectly still as well, his facial expression tight. Was that discomfort? “I also hope it hasn’t been ruined by time. I would have offered it to you yesterday, but I fear you would not have been able to palate it.”

“Thanks Sherlock, but I’m sure I’m capable of heating my own soup.” She could swear she just saw his eye twitch. She pulled her hair out of her shirt, and was sure this time that she saw the twitch. He looked ready to climb the walls. There was no point pressing it, if she tried to get him to talk he’d just clam up. So she moved slowly onto the bed and gestured to the chair. He considered it for a moment, and then slowly made his way around the bed to the seat. He was treating her like she was a viper, on top of how stiff his movements were. Keeping his eyes averted, his body language tense.

Stop over thinking, she berated herself internally. No one could force Sherlock to talk, not even her. She moved a few pillows to make a facsimile of comfort against the head board, and noted that Sherlock tensed with his want to get up to assist. This was beyond strange, even the silence was uncomfortable. Usually their silence was easy and companionable, but instead it felt like the air was heavy. Maybe she was just hungry?

Joan pulled over the tray, careful not to spill the tea, and set it down gently. These were the nicer dishes too, this was getting outright suspicious. She leaned over to get a feel for the temperature, but stopped cold. She knew that smell.

"You called my mother." She tried to keep her voice level, but Joan could already hear the accusation in it.

"Hrm?" There was that casual tone, which gave him away.

"I know this soup. You called my mother." He doesn’t meet her eyes, instead looking to the side at the cloth covered windows, "Sherlock!"

"Forgive Watson, I discovered that I was unable to make your herbal remedy.” He gestured toward the tray with a dismissing wave, and did not turn to look at her. “Thus, I called the only person who I was certain could and would with ease. The soup was merely a bonus."

“When did you call her?“ Sherlock gave no response, only a non-committal shrug for her question. Joan stared down at the amber colored soup, chives, cauliflower, and carrots. When she was sick as a child this was the soup her mother would always make, and she also remembered what it was like to prepare. “You mentioned getting me soup after you brought me tea, yesterday. This soup takes at least an hour to make, that plus the amount of time it would take my mother to wrap up and get here . . .”

"Your deductive reasoning is getting sharper with each day Watson. If you can deduce this while ill, I have high expectations for when you recover."

"When did you call her, Sherlock?" She was irritated now, and didn’t bother to hide it.

"You are a detective now, Watson. Deduce!" It was like she was a child! And he just grinned at her, waiting for her response. Joan took a breath and looked back at the soup.

"Yesterday morning, before I woke up. You would have to of for her to get here as early as she did."

"Incorrect!” He shot up from the chair, and began to pace. The look on his face was somewhere between triumph and disappointment. “I called her the night before, right after you fell asleep. She actually stopped by before you awoke, and then came by again to ensure you were doing alright. I assured her you were asleep, and best left alone."

"So you knew I was going to be sick? And you didn't say anything?" 

"I did not wish to insult you.” His voice was suddenly quiet, and he had stopped pacing. His back to her, looking to the side so all she could see was his profile. His hands rested in the small of his back, tensing and releasing where they rested. “You are more knowledgeable in medicine, it would be quite presumptuous of me to tell the ex-doctor she was ill."

The realization came to Joan slowly, not a flurry of understanding but a slight hum that grew into a full picture. She took a sip of her tea, and slowly set down the cup. “Gregson never called did he?” He gave a slight grunt in response, but she knew she was right. She set the tray to the side. “Why?”

He didn’t answer, she wished she could see his face. None of this was making sense. She thought of sitting up and trying to walk to him, force him to look at her. Joan knew better, instead she released a breath before speaking again, “Why lie about Gregson calling?” 

"Well, I had to keep up the charade didn't I?" He said it like it was the simplest thing in the world, he turned and gave her a smile before walking out of the room. He left the door open for the light, and she could hear his steps moving slowly downward. She raised a spoon to her lips tasting the soup, feeling it’s comfort, and she smiled.


	3. What Are You Here For?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again big thanks to everyone who gave kudos, commented, and read the story thus far! And HUGE thanks for forensiphile, because without that prompt I would have never written this beast of a story. We have one more chapter to go so I hope you'll all stick around for the conclusion!

The rest of the day was quiet. Sherlock only came back to her room once, took her dishes away, supplied her with this week’s reading, and left her be. He seemed nervous, saying only what was necessary and keeping eyes averted. Joan spent more of her day than she would like to admit trying to figure out why he was being so strange. Well, strange for Sherlock. She figured after calling him out on his lie he would relax, but instead he seemed wound even tighter. Still she did manage to read quite a bit into Chinese flora, and it’s medicinal uses, despite her distraction. It would seem he was taking her herbal remedy more seriously if he deemed it necessary for her to read up on the lifecycles of the plants used to make it. She also managed to stay awake through most of the day, only dozing off for small breaks before waking again and continuing her studies. 

Sherlock stayed scarce, though she could hear him rifling around downstairs. He had kept his TVs on their usual mid-range volume, blasting but not deafening, for most of the day. Around five o’clock the TVs were silenced, and at least thirty minutes after that the violin began to play. It was a rare treat to hear him play, and once it reached her she quickly set her books aside to enjoy the impromptu concert. His playing was beautiful and masterful, it was a pity he didn‘t play more often. It was one of the many facets of Sherlock she wished she knew more about. Where did he learn to play and why the violin? She knew from their time together he could play the piano just as well, but he chose a violin for himself. There was a touch of melancholy to the sound, but maybe that was her own projecting. Still, Joan was left wondering if this piece had some special significance, some meaning to Sherlock. A yawn pulls her out of her thoughts, the great mystery of Sherlock could wait another day. She turns off the lamp, and closes her eyes.

At one in the morning the slight fever she had all day turned into a raging fire. She groans, tossing, rolling, and desperate to find relief from the heat. The coughing started then, her sore throat raw with the attempt to get phlegm out of her bronchus airways. The heat would send her sprawling, trying to find a spot on her bed that was cool, the coughing fits that would shake her shoulders and make her limbs ache, then heat would turn to a burning cold and she’d violently shiver. 

Sherlock comes running when the third repetition of heat, cough, shiver, has her kicking off her covers. The thud of her blankets being tossed off her mixes with another coughing fit vicious enough to alert him. He throws open the door unceremoniously and moves directly to the dresser, grabbing an assortment of pills. He knocks over containers in his haste, and does not bother to pick them up . He curses at a blister packet as she rolls away, covering her mouth as another coughing fit shakes her small frame.

Suddenly he’s next to her, sitting on the edge of the bed. The nervous energy of before is gone, replaced with purpose. He pulls her up to a sitting position, his fingers propping up her shoulders with a gentleness that still takes her by surprise. Joan tries to help this time, using her right arm to push herself upward as the other blindly reaches for the water she knows it on the side table. He keeps his arm around her and she leans into it. His body is colder than her own, and she craves the change in temperature, too desperate to cool down to think of the position she is shoving Sherlock into. He doesn’t tense at all this time. Icy fingers touch along her forehead, pushing hair away from her eyes before his fingers bring the first pill to her lips.

Part of her wishes she was delirious. There is something too close about this act, too intimate. Sherlock seems unaffected though as he leans her head back slightly, cupping his hand at the base of the skull, and presses the capsule a bit more forcefully against her lips. Joan reluctantly opens her mouth, she feels the gelled capsule slide easy past as he tilts her head forward. He picks up the water her fingers failed to find, cool fingers pressing the cold glass in the same manner as the pills. 

They repeat this four more times, and each time she notices something different. His fingertips are not as rough as she expected, they are smooth and soft against her lips. He keeps his nails short and well groomed. He knows how to cradle her head so it’s easier to get the pill in, but not choke on it. She wonders if this is from his knowledge of addiction, or from medical knowledge. His eyes are very blue in low light. He isn’t tense at all, if anything he is more relaxed than he’s been all day. He reminds Joan of herself when she was in the surgery. He is completely in control and concentrated on what needs to be done, his movements done with an efficiency he usually hides outside of a case.

The arm supporting her tenses then eases, with each pill that is brought up to her lips. She never noticed how much muscle is in that arm, as Sherlock tends to look wiry and under nourished, and it perfectly hides the strength underneath. At this distance it is obvious the muscle tone his training in singlestick has given him. Another coughing fit hits and Joan has enough sense to tilt her head to the side and bring her hand up to cover her mouth. Sherlock’s brow pinches with the sound of it. Finally the pills are down, and he slowly lays her back on her pillows. There is something in his eyes, possibly mild panic, before it disappears behind tense neutrality. They say nothing, he just sits beside her, as Joan tries to ignore the burn of the coughing fit. The easy silence returns, none of the tension of earlier in the day, as he stays at her side. 

Joan is teetering on the edge of sleep when the groan of the bedsprings tells her he’s moving. He stands slowly, and she opens sleep blurred eyes to try and gain a grasp of what’s going on. She finds him standing over her, his body silhouetted by the light on her bedside table. He rocks slightly on his heels before leaning over and brings up his hand, reaching to brush against her forehead. His fingertips are cool against her forehead, and she finds herself leaning into the sensation trying to prolong the gentle touch. He tucks a few strands behind her ear, and some part of her aches because it means the touch will have to end. 

“My dear Watson,” his voice is a whisper, so soft she almost doesn’t catch it. He leans over and brushes his lips against her forehead. The mixture of soft lips and stubble ensures she is fully awake, her dark eyes trying to search for his face but unable to see anything but his sweater from this angle. Joan knows she shouldn’t react, she knows that half of his actions are only because he thinks she is asleep or close enough to not notice. Joan can be very bad at doing what she should. He is straightening back up, and her hand reaches out haphazardly and catches his wrist.

“Stay.” He freezes, and Joan isn’t sure if it’s her hand or her voice that nails him to the spot. His shoulders raise, defensive, and slowly she lets go. She knows most likely he will turn and leave, then this will be placed on the list of events they never speak of unless he brings it up. This is how it would usually go, but today is not usually. So she isn’t surprised when he sits back down on the bed, or when he outstretches an arm to her allowing her to drag herself closer until her head rests on the itchy sweater covering his chest. “Your taste in clothes is awful.” 

“Hush, Watson.” He is giving his lopsided grin, and she finds herself reciprocating. He wraps his arm around her shoulders, staring at the far wall. His body language is fully relaxed, even as he is pressed against the wall in what Joan can only assume is an uncomfortable position. He smells like antiseptic, wood smoke, and cheap soap. It’s fitting, this odd array of fragrances that stick to him. She is just be happy he doesn’t smell like gunpowder, because it would mean he was experimenting while she was up here. She adjusts her head and feels the scratch of the sweater again.

“Where do you even get a sweater this ugly?” she asks while rubbing her cheek against the red and blue fashion crime, feeling the scratch of wool against her cheek. The pills quickly ease her pain, but she still feels the burn in her larynx caused by speaking. Sherlock doesn’t respond, instead he lets go of her and grabs the covers she kicked off, pulling them around her. He also steals one of her pillows, propping it up against the wall, before kicking his legs out and opening up his arm to her again. There is something so easy about it, as she reclaims the spot next to him and rests her head on the awful sweater again. 

Part of her knows she should be questioning this more, analyzing and deciphering motivations, but she is too afraid of breaking this strange harmony. This easy affection, warmth, and caring Sherlock has never shown her before. She is a connoisseur of Sherlock Holmes, each new facet of him she discovers fascinates her. Every new look, new tidbit, strings her along and sometimes Joan wonders if he knows it because each time she thinks there is nothing more he will give her, he drops another breadcrumb.

His hand moves from her shoulder and begins to smooth her hair, the movement pulling her out of her contemplative stare. His long fingers busy themselves straightening strands and untangling knots as it passes downward, the motion mostly idle as he stares at the opposite wall again, eyes far off. When another coughing fit hits he holds her tight when she tries to roll away, and she tries to muffle it as best she can before resting her head on his shoulder. He goes back to running his fingers through her hair once it passes and turns off the light.

They sit in the darkness, both breathing softly as if the slightest sound could break this moment. A hush comes over the brownstone as the ambient light of New York night is not allowed to enter this space. His hand stills and she feels him shift. He tenses, possibly hesitating, before he instead moves his arm back to her shoulder. In response she eases a little closer, the bit of space she kept for his sake disappearing as her legs brush against his. A small satisfied hum leaves her throat as she pulls the blankets tighter around herself and feels warmth fill her when she feels a similar noise of approval from Sherlock. 

“Watson?” his voice was lower than she remembered it, quieter, and when he spoke she could feel his breath against her forehead.

“Hmm?” she can hear how drowsy she feels as she curls slightly closer to Sherlock, but when he doesn’t answer she tries to force herself back from the edge of sleep. She can’t see him in the dark, but she can feel the difference in his breathing and the slight tension in the arm on her shoulder, his hand gripping her close to him. “What is it, Sherlock?”

“I -” he hesitates and Joan can feel his entire body tense, hear the change of pitch in his breathing and she’s almost positive he is clenching his free hand into a fist and releasing. His own little tell, but one he only seems to do within the brownstone, but this level of closeness makes her realize how many subtle things are in his motions. She is starting to wonder if those tells are merely his way of speaking to her, making sure she is aware of things he can’t say. “Good night, Watson.” he says at last, and relaxes. Joan relaxes with him, releasing a breath she didn’t realize she was holding.

“Good night, Sherlock.”

When she wakes he’s gone, but she’s not surprised. Sherlock never sleeps long, so she stretches languidly in the space he left behind. Her neck is a bit stiff, but she feels better than she has in some time. Her throat is still viciously sore, but she knows just the fix for that. Pulling the covers away she is surprised by a slight chill in the room, a small shiver shaking her shoulders. This becomes a full blown shudder when her feet touch the floor cold wood floor. Her fever must be finally broken, because the cold of the room does not feel good in the least.

She hurries to the dresser and looks over the myriad of pills and capsules Sherlock brought home, and quickly selects the three she needs and a lozenge for her throat. The containers dropped in his haste the night before are stacked neatly again, and everything is in it’s proper order. She pulls her hair out of her face, cheek flushing with the sudden memory of what it was like to have his fingers running through it. 

There was no way that was a fever dream, her fever was up but nowhere near as bad as the first night of this awful flu. There was no easy justification for last night. She could say it was purely platonic, but she would also be lying. Joan was never very good at lying, and Sherlock was very good at catching her when she attempted. If she didn’t have a headache before, she was sure as hell going to have one now.

She grabs the water from her bedside table, Sherlock must have refilled it before he left, and downs the arrangement of pills to stop this from becoming full bronchitis. It won’t interfere with her work, but the cough is brutal and if the experience can be avoided she is going to avoid it. 

She takes a shower, and only after when she steps out in her robe does she realize how quiet the brownstone is. Then again, there was a chance Sherlock went downstairs to sleep on the couch. Unlikely, but possible. After quickly dressing, Sunday equals socks, shorts, a light colored top and a sweater to keep out the chill, she moves downstairs. Though her legs ache slightly, Joan is happy enough being up that if she wasn’t an ex-medical professional she might be tempted to go for a run.

When she gets downstairs and Sherlock isn’t on the couch she becomes mildly concerned. He very rarely slept in his room, Joan quickly starts searching for her phone in case something came up. If Gregson actually called there is no possible way Sherlock could be dissuaded, and a case would explain the quiet. When her phone has no messages on it, text or otherwise, she can feel herself tensing with worry before quickly trying to rationalize it. There was a good chance that he was upstairs asleep, or had gone to grab something and expected to be back before she awoke.

It’s after she heats up more tea, and a large helping of soup, that she finally gets a contact of any form. A text message. When the phone beeps she practically dives over the table to get it, but finds it was Gregson telling her to get better. Obviously everyone knew she had come down with something, fantastic.

She keeps trying to rationalize it as late morning turns to afternoon. Sherlock is an adult, he can do what he wants, she’s not his sober companion anymore, he can do whatever he feels he needs to. If he took on a case without her that is his prerogative and with her current health completely justifiable. Yet for every possible reason she has she thinks of his hands in her hair, his breath on her skin, his lips against her forehead and something in her twists painfully. Sherlock’s strange actions over the past three days and then last night were beyond easy understanding, and she found herself full of questions. Had she offended him? Was he out because he was trying to avoid a discussion about what happened? Had he given over to her because he felt she needed it and was now regretting it?

She had a lot of questions of her own to answer. Why had she asked him to stay? It was a step over the boundaries the two of them constantly maintained, and she did it anyway. She not only invaded his personal space, but did so for a prolonged period. Joan liked keeping at a distance, it was just as comfortable to her as it was to Sherlock. Relationships were messy, and hard to sustain, especially with her current working hours. Maybe she was over thinking this, clutching a friend when in pain was normal. . .even if she had never done it before and never known anyone else to. It was just another strange facet of how their particular partnership worked, right? Well, at least it was convincing.

It is almost two in the afternoon when she finally goes back upstairs. She had answers of her own she needed to find, and as much as she would love to pretend last night was her own selfish needs due to being ill she wasn’t that stupid or naive. There had been something brewing for some time under the surface between them. Sherlock offered his arm more often, opened doors, introducing her as his partner instead of his associate. Then there were her own actions, she asked him to stay. She found herself prideful whenever she took Sherlock’s arm, and giving him more kind words and compliments than her usual cold demeanor. Part of her felt like an idiot for only noticing it now, after she bit off more than she could chew and was looking at a very awkward couple of days.

Awkward. That was a good word for it, since the night coming from the taxi Sherlock had been acting awkward. He was hesitant, at times shy, showing avoidance long before last night’s incident. Sherlock was good, a genius though she’d never tell him, but there was no way he could have predicted where this was going to go. Not even the great Sherlock Holmes was that good.

She sighed, sitting on the edge of the bed and watching her feet as she ran them against the grooves in the wood floor. No matter how she looked at it something in the dynamic had changed long before this flu hit. She checked her phone again, still nothing. Maybe he was out avoiding her, that would be very Sherlockian. Make her concentrate on his location so she forgets all about the night before, then again if he wanted to do that he could just of easily set the kitchen on fire again.

Joan falls back on to the sheets when something finally catches her as out of place. Joan’s sheets were a bright white, but now there was something quite different laying on them. The pillow Sherlock had used to make himself comfortable last night had been replaced with a bright red one. She sat up slowly picking up the pillow, it was so stark it was amazing she didn’t notice it before. The biggest clues are often ones we don’t think to observe, she could practically hear Sherlock intoning. 

Flipping it over she found a note in Sherlock’s almost impossible to decipher handwriting. Suddenly she didn’t mind his short hand texts when this took a long hard look to even be considered words and not just a toddler who got into the pens.

“Call when you have your answer.” Joan tilts her head, staring at the strange letters. Underneath is an ornate looped signature that she can decipher as S. Holmes. She always figured he would either just sign a single letter, or it would look as unreadable as the rest of his handwriting. She never knew his signature was so fancy. She separates the sticky note from the pillow, turning it over and finding nothing else.

“When I have my answer?” She repeated it aloud, as if voicing it would make it make more sense. She couldn’t remembering him asking her a question. Which meant this was now all a game, typical. Another deductive reasoning lesson wrapped around some obtuse bit of information. He did this with her weekly readings, giving her some random subject but it ending up being part of the case but she didn’t expect he would apply it to a game of hide and seek. She collapsed backward, taking the red pillow with her and feeling the satisfying thud as the mattress dulled the force. 

The ceiling of the brownstone offered no answers, disappointing with the sheer amount of time Sherlock spent staring at them, so she turned her attention to the pillow. She didn’t recognize it so it wasn’t from downstairs, or anywhere else she had been in the house. It could be from Sherlock’s room, but she had seen his room and the sheets were blue.

“Why steal my pillow anyway?” She was voicing her opinions to nothing now, next she’d be talking to Clyde. Or Angus. Probably the former, at least he was alive. She wasn‘t quite ready to start talking to inanimate objects. She sighed again, turning the pillow over in her hands. What question? They weren’t on a case, and her reading hadn’t had any of his post-its stuck in to draw her attention. She rolled over onto her stomach, staring at the still covered windows. She should take them down.

Where did he get the sheets anyway? She didn’t remember them having that much black cloth lying around. She set the pillow aside and got up from the bed again. It took some doing, but she found a chair tall enough to help her get the sheets off the large windows. How Sherlock got those up without her noticing was beyond her, but Sherlock was very good at being quiet when he wanted to. With the sheets finally down light flooded into the room, she winced as her eyes took a moment to adjust. She turned to look back to the bed, arms crossed as she stared at the mattress in thought. There were no other messages, just the pillow and bringing light into the room didn’t make it any clearer. What was he expecting her to find? Her mind was whirling over a million possible scenarios as she stared around her mostly empty room. What was she going to do now? What was he asking her for? Did he really expect her to go on a scavenger hunt through the place trying to find out where the pillow had come from?

“Typical.” She grabbed the red pillow and started looking for where it belonged. It was easy to figure out where it hadn’t come from, she knew most of what was in the house. It didn’t belong on the couch, or in the kitchen. It didn’t belong in the spare bedroom on the bottom floor, or the one near the kitchen. So that left only a few places, the basement, Sherlock’s room, and the attic. The basement had nothing in it but a couple cleaning supplies and renovation equipment. She was forbidden from the attic and it was usually locked. So, Sherlock’s room it was. 

He for once made it obvious, once she got up to his room she found another post-it with a much clearer scrawl. It simply said WATSON. She frowned and slowly opened the door, no one was inside. She could have guessed that too, no matter how elaborate Sherlock’s schemes he cannot sit quiet in a room for almost five hours. Slowly she stepped in, and was quite amazed how clean it was. She had come in here only once or twice, and every time there were clothes everywhere, bed unmade, notes and files. Chaos, like how he kept everything else if she and Ms. Hudson didn’t keep it in line. Now, everything was pristine except for the bed which was situated in a very particular way. It was his version of a crime scene. Her white pillow was set up against the wall, blankets in a decided pile, and the red matching pillow beside it. Attention to detail as always. On the white pillow was another single post-it, and on it was a very large question mark and his signature. She sat down on the bed staring at the pillow in frustration, that told her everything she needed to know. Great. 

She wanted to scream, but felt her throat burn and decided not to. Instead she set the red pillow back where it belonged and stared at her white pillow. It looked strange on his bed, but he had worked so far to try and recreate the night before. Why? If this was meant to be her crime scene what was the crime she was attempting to deduce? She looked at the two post it notes in her hand. Sherlock could never say anything outright, everything had to be clues and hints. When he was straight forward with something it would only be because she hounded him and now he was hiding out until she solved his little mystery. 

She looked at the pillows again, and the two notes. Slowly she stood up, gazing at the scene again and walked over to the other side and set down the second note. On the bed were two pillows, one red inscribed Watson, the other a question mark. Call me when you have your answer. It was so simple, so basic, she almost wanted to kick herself. Of course, he was still waiting for her to answer the one question she hadn’t yet been able to answer. She grabbed her phone out of her pocket, unlocking it with a quick jab and swipe of a finger.

She hit the two key, holding it until she heard dial tone. The speed dial quickly turning over to Holmes as she ran back to her room. She was back down the stairs and through the door when he picked up.

“Watson! I was beginning to be concerned.” He sounded chipper through the phone, as if nothing in the world was the matter. Typical. She moved across the room into her closet and thrust a hand into it, hand coming back out with a black skirt and a pair of leggings. “You went exactly five hours, thirty one minutes, and seventeen seconds without contacting me, I was trying to decide if I should contact the police or emergency medical services.” 

“I figured it out.” She had the phone against her ear, held by her shoulder, as she quickly threw off her shorts and began fighting to get the leggings on.

“Pardon?” His tone shifted instantly, the voice deepened and became much quieter. She pulled the leggings up before adjusting the phone with one hand.

“Your question, I figured it out.” 

There was a long pause, a hesitation and if it wasn‘t for the fact that she could hear his breath in the speaker she might have been worried he didn‘t hear her. “Did you solve it?” There was a waver in his voice, and she stopped fighting with the skirt to hear it. He was afraid.

“Yes.” Her tone was kept neutral, and she heard him suck in a breath.

“I shall be at the brownstone in twenty minutes.” And the line went dead. Joan set the phone aside and quickly finished getting ready and then went downstairs to wait. The kettle put on and tea set out, serious discussions were always better with tea prepared she had learned. She sat down slowly at the table, fingers entwined in front of her as she felt the knot in her stomach tighten. She was either very right, or very wrong, and in twenty minutes she was going to find out.

It was actually only seventeen minutes from the phone call that he returned, coat buttoned up to the nines, his favorite red scarf, jeans, and his nose was red with the chill evening air. His fingers were gloved but he rubbed them against each other when he entered with the cold. She observed him without saying anything, just watched as he quickly pulled off layers and set them onto the coat rack where they always sat. Even kicking off his shoes before turning to her.

He stepped into the room slowly, aware of the distance of each step and his hands were quickly behind him. His expression grave like a man awaiting bad news. “Well, Watson. I believe it is time you tell me what I am here for.”


	4. If You Need Me (Finale)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone who has read, kudo'd and reviewed! Unfortunately this is where our fic ends, but I hope those of you who have read this far have enjoyed the story told. Again big thanks to forensiphile, without her prompt this fic would have never happened. Thanks for reading along, and enjoy our finale.

She set down two mugs of tea, and Sherlock finally agreed to sit down. He was nervous, very obviously as he began tapping his fingers against the tabletop. Joan was the perfect contrast, sitting calm and impassive on the other side of the table. His leg was bouncing now, and Joan was sipping her tea as she allowed her thoughts to really form. She had practiced precisely what she would say during the seventeen minutes she had to wait, but now she couldn’t seem to remember how to start it off. The tapping became louder, distracting her from her thoughts as her mind focused in on his hands.

“Sherlock.” He stopped immediately, his gaze snapping to her before quickly looking away. The tense silence picked up the instant he looked away, but he did stop tapping his fingers. Even if it meant his foot bouncing had picked up. Small victories. Everything with Sherlock was a series of small victories. Joan took another sip of her tea before finally setting it back down, the mug clinking against the table snapping his attention to her again.

“I’m not very good at this.” Joan finally admitted, her fingers idly playing with the edge of her mug. She was picking up some of Sherlock’s more annoying habits, or maybe it was his nervous bouncing rubbing off on her. She couldn’t be sure. Sherlock was staring over her at the far wall, probably staring at Angus, his jaw set and his lips down turned. 

“I’ve placed you in a terrible imposition, haven’t I?” He attempted to smile, but all it looked was apologetic. His leg stilled as he brought his fingers up to his mug.

“No. Well, yes,” He shifted uncomfortably, while Joan smirked “but no more than usual.” She observed him as he was now looking away from her entirely, trying to avoid any accidental eye contact. He was desperate to get up and pace, she knew it, but he sat and waited anyway. She considered drawing it out, getting him back for all the times he did this to her. Still, of all the things Joan Watson was, she was not petty. “How long has this been going on?”

Sherlock didn’t look at her, his eyes staring at his hanging jacket in the entryway. “Sometime, at least six months.” He frowned, and his breath was slightly erratic as he kept staring at that jacket as if it carried all the answers in the world. “I dedicated a fair amount to attempting to unearth why I was better with you, even with the consideration of your quickly forming deductive skills there was something. . .” he gestured vaguely between them with his left hand, “else.”

Joan observed him as he spoke. His shoulders were hunched, body language showing his fear and lack of certainty. His eyes were glassy, which meant he was not concentrating on what he was seeing, and his face was tense in an expression of forced neutrality. “After some time I realized I wasn’t just better focused around you, but calmer, relaxed. Perhaps even. . .happier.” He shifted, there was a nervousness in his motion, and he intertwined his fingers to keep from tapping them on the table. “It was a short time after that.”

Joan took it all in without a sound, or giving anything away. Her time with Sherlock had made her very good at keeping her expression neutral, though she hoped it was less tense than his. His leg was tapping furiously against the ground again. She wished he would get up and pace, the motion might help her figure out just what to say. “And the pillows?”

“The best I could improvise with so little time.” He seemed to ease a bit with this line of conversation, his own ego demanding he silently gloat about his impromptu genius. His left eyebrow raising slightly as it generally did when he felt he had done or said something particularly clever.

“You could have just talked to me.” Joan’s voice steals away that bit of gloating and he is all nerve ends and tension again.

“I had not planned for this conversation to ever come to pass.” He disentangled his fingers, bringing a hand to rake through his hair, the action only put him all the more on edge. “I had accepted that our current arrangement was the extent of our relationship. I would not dare endanger our partnership for my own self-seeking desires. Nor would I threaten the respect you have for me by forcing it upon you.” With each sentence his expression seemed to grow more grave, and a hush had taken to him that was only present when something that was deeply personal to him came out. His eyes were pained, raw, and afraid. 

“After last night I knew it could not be avoided, but I-” he hesitated, and finally he looked at her, that raw expression twisting her insides. He was in pain, and afraid that he had damaged their partnership. She knew she would need to reassure him, but for now it was best to give him a chance to speak. “It was necessary I let you decide from a point of neutrality. If I was present I would, attempt, to influence the outcome in my favor.” His own weakness disgusted him, the way his head tilted a few degrees to the right and his nostrils flaring gave it away. 

“It’s ok, Sherlock.“ She reached across the table and offered her hand to him. He took it like it was a lifeline, his fingers surrounding her own. The simple action seemed to ground him, his body language losing a bit of it’s tense edge. 

“I must admit Watson, this is not at all how I envisioned this conversation going.” He was looking away from her again, his intense gaze leaving her to fixate elsewhere.

“And how did you envision it?”

“You were throwing things at my head.” His voice was soft and his facial expression a bit sheepish. She laughed softly at the idea though, Sherlock Holmes ducking away from a variety of objects thrown at him.

“I may still, don’t think you’re out of that danger zone yet.” 

He smirked at that, before focusing in on her face again. His gaze was extremely intense, moving from lips to eyes in a semi-rapid movement. “I believe we have fully discussed the events that preface our current situation.” His hand gripped hers a little tighter, like his arm around her shoulders. It was that sting of fear, that whatever was going to be said would break this tentative peace. “ I believe all that is left is your answer, Watson.”

Joan removed her fingers from his own, though he did his best to stymie the attempt, and looked down at her tea. She took another sip, feeling it ease the last of the sore throat. Luckily it was fading or this conversation would have been closer to torture. She tucked a few strands of hair behind her ear, eyes staring down at the table. 

“I-” It was her turn to hesitate, her body tense and the mask of neutrality slipping off her face. She was afraid of this too, had always been afraid. She could feel her cheeks burning with the self awareness of how focused in on her he was. “Is this just a sex thing, like with the Lynch sisters?”

He went rigid, and his jaw clenched. His right eye twitched, and his hand turned into a fist. “I am offended by the notion, Watson. Do you honestly believe I would risk our partnership for a mere dalliance?” His words were very controlled, but the slight waver and the fact that his knuckles were turning white with how hard he was clenching showed the anger he felt.

“I just -” Words failed her, she felt guilt twisting the knot her insides had become painfully. She knew he respected her too much for that to be the case, but there was that edge of doubt. 

“I understand.” His words were still harsh, his breath not yet normal, but he seemed to have calmed somewhat. He ran a hand through his hair again, his free hand brushing against the wood of the table. “You had to be sure.”

Joan wrapped her hands around her mug, as if the warmth could calm her down. “I’m not good at relationships, Sherlock.”

“Neither am I.” His answer was instantaneous, as if he had been waiting for her to say it. He lifted up his tea and finally took a sip before setting it back down, his eyes taking her in once more, “but I believe it is worth pursuing.”

“It can’t interfere with our working partnership.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it, Watson.”

“And if things don’t work out that can’t interfere either.”

“Of course.” His was smiling again, he had already deduced that she was not shutting him down. His bouncing leg slowed, his face relaxed and his eyes seemed to have a spark in them. “I shall keep all efforts to keep this separate from the work we do. I shall also maintain a professional level of interaction in front of our colleagues, suspects, and people of interest.”

He knew just how to talk to her, boundaries and rules were the stability she made in her life. It was control in a world she had discovered was completely without it most of the time. “Agreed.” His expression broke into a real smile then, but she felt all the more awkward. The talking was easy, but what did they do now? Should they go get dinner, or simply call that good for a day? She felt suddenly very uncomfortable. Change always put her on edge, and she found herself looking to her tea for answers like Sherlock would look to Angus. 

“You’re over-analyzing.” He was suddenly next to her, his breath hot on her ear and her whole body tensed. She hadn’t even heard him get up. He retreated quickly with that smug grin on his face. He hadn’t even touched her but she felt herself blushing half out of embarrassment and half out of the sensation of him so close. 

“So, what happens now?” She asked it calmly even with how unsure she felt at this moment. Sherlock did not sit down but instead moved to the side of her so she could easily track his movements. His hands went behind him once more, and he looked out over the kitchen.

“Well, now you answer my question.”

“What?” Her mouth hung open in confusion as she looked at him with an expression that must have been hilarious because he started laughing. Holding one hand against his forehead as his shoulders shook with badly suppressed laughter. Joan rarely heard Sherlock laugh, and usually enjoyed the sound, but not when it was at her expense. 

“You should realize, my dear Watson, that at times there is no great mystery to be solved. Sometimes the answer truly is the obvious one.” His voice still sounded on the edge of laughter, but he was doing his best to keep it under control as he spoke.

“So, the pillows weren’t some obtuse attempt to get me to answer the question of why you took care of me?” She couldn’t believe it. She had truly felt she had uncovered what he was trying to say and there he stood trying to not break down in laughter again.

“Forgive, Watson. I had considered that you may not comprehend the message I had left, or be offended by it’s intonation. I had not considered that you would misinterpret it entirely.” His grin had turned into one of gloating that she had not been able to infer exactly what he was asking and that annoyed her more than his laughter. She crossed her arms in irritation.

“So what was it?” She didn’t hide her irritation when she spoke either. She had been so sure she had solved it, so absolutely sure.

He leaned down close to her again, his breath against her ear though he didn’t physically touch her. He kept perfectly still, but she could feel the heat from his body with how close he was. “I was proposing, if you were so inclined, to join me in my room for the evening.”

He was so close, his voice soft and deep. She felt her insides twist as he spoke and she had never realized Sherlock’s voice could be downright sexy. His breath moved the hairs near her ears and the heat seemed to spread across her face. 

“I would be most grateful for your company.” He wasn’t kidding when he said he would manipulate the outcome in his favor, the way he phrased his words was incredibly seductive, “What is your response, Joan?”

She decided to forgo words in favor of action. She turned her head and pressed her lips to his, feeling the mixture of stubble and the softness of his own lips. He responded immediately, one hand against the table for support and the other moving to cup her cheek, His body leaned into her, and Joan rested her arms against his shoulders.

The kiss only lasted a few moments, their breath intermingling as they separated. The hand left cupping Joan’s cheek removed itself to rest against her shoulder and she found Sherlock’s blue eyes searching her own. “I shall take this as an answer in the affirmative?”

Joan smirked in response, and he gave her his best smug grin. “Then I suggest we retire upstairs, before I place you into a series of unenviable positions on the table.”

“And just what is so awful about that?” She was back in her stride, a sarcastic smirk on her lips as she leveled her eyes at him.

“I will not let my efforts to make my room presentable go to waste.” He wrapped his fingers around her wrist and tugged to get her moving. Joan gave in without her usual fuss, standing as he looked down at her, his free hand reaching to push some hair behind her ear. “And I would loathe having to buy you yet another spatula.” He smirks in response to her outraged expression and turns with his fingers still wrapped around her wrist, tugging her toward the stairs. He takes them two at a time and she finds herself rushing, trying to keep up. He tugs her along until finally they mounted the last stair and he thrust open the door to his room.

Her white pillow was still there, stark against red pillows and red sheets. Wait, weren’t his sheets usually blue? She doesn’t get a chance to ask though as he turns on her and wraps his arms around her. He crushes his mouth against her own. Gone was the Sherlock afraid to touch, instead he was pressing her as close to him as he could. His lips wandered away from her lips to kiss along cheeks where her jaw line met her neck as he, quite efficiently, backed her against a wall.

“You do not know how long I’ve wanted this.” He whispers against her skin as he fights with her skirt. She pulls on his shirt and he separates long enough to toss it aside before returning to press his lips against her pulse. Her fingers stretch against his shoulders, following the lines of muscles and bone. His skin is not fully smooth, ridges from tattoos and wounds exposed to her curious finger tips. He shivers and gooseflesh forms when her fingers brush from shoulder to the back of his neck, a groan muffled into her skin.

“Six months I believe is what you said.” She finds it amazing she can think enough to retort as his teeth nip at her collarbone and his fingers tug down her skirt to pool at her ankles. His fingers are insistent and quickly press under her shirt, tracing along her skin and pressing up her top to trace along ribs.

He chuckles gently against her skin, the sound rough and low. “No, Watson, I believe I have wanted this my entire life.” He reaches out a hand, and turns off the light.


End file.
